I'm Becoming Less Defined As Days Go By
by avtekkenhearts
Summary: It doesn't make sense. "I'm a demon, aren't I?" It feels right to assume the role of older brother, but Dean doesn't know why. Strong M rating, graphic depictions of torture and eventual slash.
1. Fading Away

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Alistair lifts his blade to rest against the flesh of Dean's face. He doesn't put any pressure to his touch; this isn't the first time, and it certainly won't be the last. in Earth days, unbeknownst to Dean, it has been two weeks since his death. Two weeks in Hell equates to about five years.

Dean is a good soul. He remembers all of his time on Earth and he thinks often about Sam. Sam is alive, that's all that matters; at least to Dean. He is resigned to an eternity here, despite his undeserved sentence.

Pain is infinite in the pit. Whether the blades of a knife carve into him, or the claws of demons, the heat of fire, the chill of cold, or the absence of water to cool his burning tongue, pain is a constant. It is never-ending, and it is all-consuming.

The memories go slowly. It has been six weeks since Dean's death, and Sam is still searching for a way to retrieve him from here. The first memory he forgets is from the summer of 94'; he and Sam sharing a coke in the back of the Impala while John goes inside for gas. An irrelevant, unimportant memory and he doesn't even realize he has forgotten it.

On one occasion, Alistair sticks his blood-soaked hands into the hunter's eyes and pops them out, yanking the ligaments and nerves from behind their sockets. Dean screams for an unfathomable length of time. Hours, days, it doesn't really matter. Time moves strangely in Hell.

They grow back.

That's the thing about hell, the pain isn't the only thing that never ends. He will never end, he will always exist, and he will regrow, heal, regenerate flesh over tendons and bones and muscle, but despite that, there is no moment of sweet relief. There is not a second where he is free from the despair, the agonizingly slow torment. For the moment his skin begins to close, a blade is flaying it off, layer by layer, piece by piece, and it never stops.

He forgets more easily now because memories are unimportant and the only thing that matters is the pain, always at the fore front of his mind, forever. Oh, but he remembers Sammy, his pain in the ass little brother who he'd die for over and over, and he wouldn't change his mind, he'd make the same choice every time.

At the end of every session, every torturous, seemingly infinite bout of misery Alistair asks him a question, and he asks but once. "Will you take up my blade? If you do I will harm you no longer." This time, as every time thus far has been, his response is "Go fuck yourself."

After sixty years, his resolve is winding down. The pain is far too much, but his brother is waiting for him, he has to be strong for Sam's sake. Absently he realizes that he is never going back, not ever, but he holds on, he makes every moment a memory. He's forgetting his old ones and replacing them with pain, more and more anguish, more agony.

All those he loved do not exist, they never did. Alistair tells it to him over and over, and little by little he starts to believe it.

Dean prays. If God were real, he would never let his children suffer like this, but he isn't praying to God, he's praying to Sam to save him. Sam is the only thing that really ever mattered. Sam is the only one who can save him, he's the only thing besides the pain that can penetrate the cloud over his thoughts.

Every memory of Earth is so abstract, so vague, he thinks that maybe it's all been a dream, that Alistair is right, maybe he has always been here, maybe this is where he belongs.

After one hundred and twenty years, he looks Alistair in the eyes and says, "Sign me up."Alistair's face lights up in a grin of malice and evil intent. He holds out his razor for Dean to take, hands and metal soaked in dark maroon and crusted with Dean's blood. He takes the blade from Alistair's hands and runs it through him as many times as he can before he is wrestled down. His torturer simply waggles a finger in his direction and makes a disappointed noise. "Dean, Dean, Dean, that wasn't very nice."

There are those that spy, those that watch and laugh as his skin is mottled with cuts and his bones are shaved into points; they throw their terrible excuses for faces back and guffaw with mouths wide open, teeth sharp and ugly. They eat his flesh when it hits the ground, this sizzling floor made of blood and bone, his blood, his bones, and his shed skin.

It's four sessions later when Alistair catches his eyes with his milky gaze, something like sympathy flashing over his visage. Alistair was always a good actor. He wades through the ankle deep pool of red liquid, soaking his pale feet in crimson.

He drops the thin metal blade and touches Dean's face like something precious, like a child would with their favorite toy.

"What you remember was not real. You were never human, you have always been mine. You will _always_ be mine. You belong to me. Give in to me, Dean." his voice is sweet as honey and twice as smooth. Something in Dean breaks, something is different this time. His resolve crumbles.

He nods.

There are days, months, years, he spends with fingers splayed, clutching a pretty brunette's entrails in his fingers, ripping them apart and feeding them to those creatures, the watchers, as he's grown to call them.

She doesn't stop screaming, her green eyes bulging and her lips cracking from how wide her mouth is.

Dean thinks that once he would have called her beautiful. Her blood is spilling out even as her body tries to repair itself, soaking her ripped dress in thick red rivers. There's something so soothing about this work, there is a sense of detachment from it all; he can dirty his hands but not his conscience. He is what he is and this is what he needs.

His eyes are black and his soul is black and his hands are red. He's good at what he does, efficient. His victims stay breathing for as long as spiritually possible before they die and he starts all over. He takes them down bit by bit until they can't even scream anymore, until their voices are garbled with their own blood. He likes that sound best, it's like they're drowning when there's no need for breath.

It's been _years_. When he tries to pin down a number he can't, it's been so long.

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And then suddenly it's all over. He comes to in a field, his lungs screaming for air. He gasps and bolts straight up. He takes in a gigantic gulp of air and pushes off the ground to his feet.

He breaks into a fill-up joint and steals water and some other necessities, a skin mag hastily thrown into the mix. He looks in the mirror and his eyes aren't black, they're hazel with flecks of gold, and his hands are no longer stained with blood. He smiles maliciously. Finally.

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The first thing he remembers of his escape is white light. Suffocating, blinding, pure. It burns in a very literal sense, much alike to being soaked in acid. It feels somehow wrong, out-of place, in the midst of such pain and despair.

He hates it. Oh, how he wants to steal that light. He wants to replace it with misery and hatred. Maybe it will fill the emptiness inside. Maybe it will make him remember who he is, or was, at least. It's been a long time.

A very long time.

"C'mere." He asks plainly, amusement evident in his voice. The light wavers and the atmosphere surrounding him is rebuilt before his eyes. The cracks in the dirt beneath his feet close up; the soul on his rack ceases it's squirming and looks upon the visitor with wonder, eyes spilling over with briny tears as her wounds stitch themselves together.

"Are you...an angel?" she asks, with such sincerity that it makes him cringe. He thinks nothing of it as he sends a knife into her wind pipe. Her gurgling is much more tolerable than her voice.

The light is dissolving now, gaining form and decreasing in size. The luminescence fades until the being before him can roughly be described as a man. No. There isn't anything human about it. It's bone structure is elongated and avian looking. It is reminscent of Egyptian architecture, like all the pieces are taken from different animals and they don't quite fit together correctly. The fingers are purely skeletal, knuckles protruding almost painfully from the pale flesh wrapped around them His gaze travels upwards past the dainty legs to the hips; they look sharper than glass and smoother than silk all at once and he is briefly overtaken with the urge to touch, but he restrains himself. Not yet.

He towels his bloody hands down his shirt and takes a step forward. The creature stares at him as he moves but makes no effort to stop him. His eyes land along the perfect bow of the thing's collar bone and he hums in approval. He notices idly that it has no breasts, obviously not female, and it doesn't seem to have any characteristics of a man either. He's never seen anything like this, and given the career in his imagined life, that is just unheard of.

"What are you?" It keens it's head sideways, looking for all the world like a confused puppy. When it speaks the words are muddled, like it is new to language, or it's trachea has grown raw with disuse. "I don't answer to you, I answer to God." Liar.

"God doesn't exist, buddy." He can see the light building again, from behind the being's eyes. He can't look away. That's when he notices how the air pressure is fluctuating around the mystery visitor's back. _Are those wings?_ He thinks absently.

"This is absolutely not the time for your existentialist crisis." it says, and he huffs a humorless laugh. He stretches his arms over his head and yawns. "I'm getting really fucking tired of your tricks, Alistair."

The tension in the room steadily builds as the being grows impatient. "This is not a trick." He looks up at it and smiles. "Oh really?" in one fluid motion he yanks the knife out of the soul's throat and launches it at the psuedo-human. The knife exactly hits it's mark, dead center in the chest. It hardly gives the extruding weapon a second glance.

"What the fuck are you?" He screams, partially out of anger, but mostly, fear."That knife was coated in holy water and salt. You can't even be here!" it gives him a sort of lop-sided grin which only further infuriates Dean.

"Answer my question!" it finally concedes and takes a confident step forward. "I am an angel of the Lord." Even though he knows that it is some kind of trick, he wants to believe, he wants it so badly. "Alright, angel., why are you here?"

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"Damnit, Sam, pick up your damn phone." The man rubs his eyes and takes a drink from the short-necked whiskey bottle on his desk. "Listen, boy, something is going on in Pontiac, Illinois. Right near where Dean's planted. I might need your help on this one."

The other end of the line remains silent, Bobby begrudgingly hangs up the phone and downs another sip of liquor with a muttered, "Balls!" He cracks open the latest manuscript he's found on hell. Specifically, how to retrieve a soul from it. It's a little bit crazy. Okay, a lot crazy. But he'll be damned if he doesn't try everything.


	2. Losing Focus

summary: "Alistair's getting pretty clever, isn't he?" He curls his fingers tight around the angel's throat again, "Hate to break it to you buddy, but you aren't real."

x

The radio cuts on to the rasp of static, an unearthly siren filling the air in warbling waves. Dean looks around, confused. His ears bleed, it hurts. It shouldn't. Every shred of glass in the tiny room explodes at once, throwing him to the ground in its force. He covers his ears frantically, desperate to shut out the noise. And just like that it's over.

He brushes glass off of his clothes as he stands, opening up tiny little cuts in his hands which sting and bleed. This makes no sense, Alistair's tricks have never been so elaborate, so visceral, but he shrugs his shoulders and picks up the discarded bag of items he's packed. He'll play the game for a while longer.

The television set hung in the corner of the store flips alive to a news station with a curvy news anchor; the date at the bottom of the screen reads August, 2008. A year and five months after his death. Death from the life he no longer believes he lived.

"2008?" He says, shifting on his feet.

When he turns there's a man standing in front of him, hands deep in the pockets of his long tan trench coat. His expression is sour, mouth pulled tight in a grimace. He meets Dean's gaze head on, the blue of his eyes providing stark contrast to the dark of his hair.

Dean looks him up and down, annoyed that he's just standing there and hasn't moved an inch or even breathed since he got here. "This your store?" Dean turns fully around, standing a few tiny feet away from him.

The man tilts his head sideways, as if confused and astounded that he had even asked that question,"No."

"Then leave." Dean makes a gesture towards the wooden door to his left. The man takes a step forward.

"Why?" Dean wants to slap him, doesn't he realize that Dean is more than a man, that he could rip out his throat with his bare hands?

He pushes the idiot against the wall, his weight giving easily, "Because I'll kill you, that's why." The man tilts his head and glares at Dean.

"Will you?" Something in his voice speaks of power and Dean knows he's been outmatched. He totally misread this guy, he's probably a demon too.

Dean doesn't back up though, merely puts a hand against the guy's throat and pushes. "You don't think so?" The guy grins at him. He fucking smirks and then Dean is on the ground, flat on his back staring up at the brunette.

"I don't." Dean glares back up at him, not feeling like standing yet. He looks at him from this new angle, taking in the way his polished shoes lead into his dark slacks and the hem of his coat hits him just under his knees.

"Who are you?" Dean rasps out, trying to sound stronger than he currently feels.

The man holds out a hand for him to take. Dean slaps it away and stands on his own. "I'm Castiel. We have important things to discuss, Dean Winchester."

"You're the angel." Dean says, eyes flaring with recognition. "You pulled me out."

The stranger nods, dark eyelashes casting shadows across his sharp cheekbones. "Why?" Dean asks, drawing closer to the angel, "Why would you do something like that?" He looks at Dean with sympathy, one of the few emotions even Alistair could never accomplish. Dean is taken aback because the illusion is really quite believable. "Why me? Why not some other demon?"

The angel, Catiel comes far closer into his space than he is strictly comfortable with, "You're not a demon."

Dean snorts a laugh, "Oh? I'm not?" he sways close to the angel, somehow drawn towards him, "Alistair's getting pretty clever, isn't he?" He curls his fingers tight around the angel's throat again, "Hate to break it to you buddy, but you aren't real."

"I am real." Castiel replies, voice raw and thick, much like the very first time he heard it, back in hell. Or, hell before this massive hallucination started. "Alistair is still in hell. I bound him myself." He doesn't take the effort to remove Dean's fingers from his neck, he merely keeps talking, his voice showing an absolute lack of physical strain despite Dean's crushing grip.

He looks at Dean with exasperation before he lightly tugs the intruding hand from around his throat. He wonders deep inside just what Alistair has done to this man to twist him into the disbelieving person in front of him. "This is your problem, Dean. You have no faith."

"In angels? I don't buy it. Alistair is a tricky bastard, this is well within his capabilities." Castiel looks on the verge of rolling his eyes but he places a gentle hand on Dean's shoulder. It prickles where their skin touches. Dean looks down to his shoulder and sees what's causing the sensation, a hand print, this guy's hand print is burned into his arm.

It's obviously from before because there is no pain. He _feels_ something from the touch and meets the guy's eyes. He wants to believe. He wants it to be true. He doesn't want to play the game anymore but he'll pretend for a little while. "Okay." he breathes out, "_Alright_. Angel."

"Why me?" he whispers quietly like a child being reprimanded by a disappointed parent, "Why did you pick me?" He isn't a human, not by a long shot and he probably never was, but he'll play that role.

The angel looks at him with eyes bright and his whole form radiating confidence, "I have orders from my father." Dean feels overwhelmed, like something of colossal importance has just been placed on his shoulders. "You are needed in the coming war."

"The angels want a demon to fight a war for them? Really smart. Good work, God." he snickers, sarcastic humor lost on the angel.

"You are not a demon." He repeats for a second time, "Why do you keep saying that?"

"Because it's the truth? You don't pull out organs for thirty years without some consequences."

x

Sam drives all night, tailing behind a couple of low level demons, wondering why the sudden change in direction. He grows suspicious when he draws near Illinois but he keeps driving anyway. They've pissed him off royally by running away like this, cowardly and abrupt. There's six people dead in Tennessee and they're going to pay for it.

The first was a young blonde, found in her bathtub, her throat slashed, a meager attempt to imply suicide, but Sam picked up the pattern. Omens, lightning storms all around the state, lighting up in around the five other deaths too.

He'd caught them in the middle of another ritual, chanting some satanic bullshit over a teenaged boy who couldn't have been more than sixteen. They ran. The kid survived because Sam had picked him up and driven him to the hospital. The nurses had questions that he couldn't answer. He stuck around for as long as he could, but when he looked out the window Ruby was standing outside, beckoning him.

Ruby had sidled up to him when he strode out, telling him in terse tones that something big was happening, that she could feel how hell was quaking. She could feel that something had happened, something beyond her understanding. She couldn't tell him what it was, but she had a feeling that the demons he was chasing knew about it. She was scared, noticeably so, he eyes darting wildly about and her fingers twitching nervously. "Sam we've gotta go faster. Something big is going down and I'm pretty sure you don't want them finding out what it is before we do." Sam agrees wholeheartedly.

He's driving the impala and Ruby's sitting shotgun. Even after all this time, it feels wrong. Each time he looks over he expects to see a different face, but each time Ruby sends him a grimace and directs him which roads to take, making him stop once after about seven hours so she can get some french fries. At least that bit is the same. She and his brother share a love of greasy road food.

They track the demons until they get to Pontiac and Sam is digging crescents into his hands at this point, genuinely afraid of what could be so bad that even Ruby is worried. She's biting her nails and staring out the window, occasionally looking over at Sam.

"Something's not right." Ruby says after a while, fidgeting with the zipper of her jacket. "They know we're here. Why aren't they doing anything?" Sam shrugs and takes a swig of his beer, running a hand through his hair.

"I don't know, Ruby. I really don't."

x

It's two days later when there's a knock on their door, a grim faced Bobby and even more improbably, the lackadaisical grin of something that looks like his brother. A shapeshifter? Sam pulls a silver knife from his boot and lunges at the creature, swiping it clean across its face before Bobby can intervene. "Damn it, boy I've already checked. It's really your brother!"

Dean snorts at that. Sam narrows his brows in anger, splashing holy water into Dean's face. It slides right off, dripping down his face.

Dean rolls his eyes. "This isn't real."

_'It isn't real. It isn't. Dean Winchester does not exist. Alistair is a fucking bastard. Screw him. Screw him for showing me something I'll never have. I hope he chokes on that razor.' _

"What are you?" Sam asks, taking a cautious step back.

Dean shrugs his arms and steps further into the room. "Who do you think it is, _bitch_?"

Sam drops his flask and his knife and trips forward into a bone-crushing hug, squeezing Dean's body as tight as he can. Dean hugs back. He doesn't know why.

"It's okay, Sammy, it's okay." It feels like the right thing to say. He feels warm and light. _'Huh.'_ He thinks, _'Weird.'_

_x_

A/N: Did you guys like it? I was so ifffy on this chapter, sorry for the long wait.


	3. Drifting Into the Abstract

Summary: It feels like coming home.

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"How did you get out?" Sam asks after a while, confusion muddying his expression. Dean turns away from him, muttering quietly to himself. Sam urges him on with a displeased grunt and a hand waving at him to continue.

"Don't ask." Dean answers, avoiding the question. "Sammy you don't wanna know." It's reminiscent of something he said a thousand times in his youth, trying his damndest to keep the knowledge of the Winchester curse from his baby brother.

Memories, unbidden, come flooding back, seeping into the dark recesses of his mind, filtering through the years of pain, rebuilding him. Mary slicing apples for a pie because she knew that it was Dean's favorite, John holding Sam in his arms while they all watched television together, Sam dying in his arms, it's all too much and he can't stop the memories as they come. 'Stop it.' he thinks, 'Stop!' and his mind blanks. Dean groans and digs the heels of his hands into his eyes, feeling a headache coming on. Sam leans against the wall and stares at him curiously. He eyes him for so long that Dean glares back, asking a silent question. Sam's answering look communicates many things, 'You okay?' but also, 'How are you alive?' and so much love that Dean is left momentarily speechless.

"How are you feeling anyway?" Bobby quips from the corner, looking dubious and confused. Dean shrugs his shoulders and stretches his arms over his head.

"I feel fine." The response is received with skepticism, mostly from himself. He doesn't feel fine at all. He feels fantastic. Whatever Alistair is playing at, he's got Dean hooked. Addicted. He's sold on this life, the prospect of a family, real and solid. A brother that cares so deeply for him he can't even fathom it, and that's not entirely true. He can fathom it. He knows that feeling so intimately, so fundamentally, that he's beginning to believe the illusion. This is dangerous.

'It's not real.' He reasons. A tiny voice in the deepest parts of his soul cries out, _'Please.'_

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_When he sleeps, he dreams. Or maybe his dreams are the true reality. Of course he's still in Hell. It only makes sense. Angels? Get real. He never left, he'd only dreamed he had. There is no God, no divine deity that cares whether Dean rots in Hell for eternity. There is no Castiel. There is no Bobby Singer. There is no John and Mary Winchester. There is no Sammy. There is only Dean and his endless torment. Sometimes Alistair lets him off the rack, lets him slice into some poor sap who falls onto his knees and begs him, "Please don't hurt me. Please. You're not a bad guy. Please don't. No. Stay back...No!"_

_They are easy to silence. A couple of cuts here and a snip there and they can scream all they want, not making a sound. Dean traces patterns in their skin, branding them. _

_Alistair doesn't let him off the rack this time. "Dean, my dearest. Your last session went so very quickly. I think you need to be taught some more."_

_Dean can't stop the childish fear before he speaks, voice quivering. "You promised, Alistair."_

_"You promised."_

_Alistair's teeth, jagged and black, sharp as his razor and twice as slow when he runs them over Dean's flesh, taunting him. He holds in a scream when Alistair bites down on his cheek and pulls, ripping his skin off in a long strip, revealing a portion of bone and pink layers of muscle. Blood spurts against Alistair's mouth, painting his face like a childhood nightmare. _

_He flays skin off of Dean's fingers with his blade, bits of knuckle poking through the skin when he's finished, gleaming and white. The nails go next. One by one he pops them off as Dean flinches on each little snapping sound, biting his lower lip. He looks into the darkness, anywhere but into Alistair's eyes. Dean's defiance makes him try harder. "Look at me, Dean." He pleads in a mocking tone. _

_He digs his talons into Dean's face, turning it so that Dean has no choice but to meet his eyes. "Red suits you well." Blood trickles down his fingers and flows into Dean's mouth, Dean's blood. It hits his tongue with the tang of copper and the acrid taste of bile rises in his throat._

_Alistair runs a claw down Dean's chest, opening a sanguine gash that leads down his torso, deep enough that Dean can hear the scratch against his sternum, like a polished nail on a chalkboard, shrill and chilling. It fucking hurts. His throat betrays him in a gasp, eyes shutting tight and lower lip busting open from where his teeth clamp down._

_Alistair sticks the blade inside of his wound, twisting it, making sure that it cannot close completely. "You'll never die, not while I'm taking care of you, Dean. Not even for a moment. I can make it never end. I can make this forever. Do you think I can make you hate yourself less? You picked up this razor and dealt to others the same that I gave to you. You're no better than me; you're a monster, a demon."_

_Dean nods. It's true, after all._

_Alistair goes back to work. It takes a long time for him to take off every shred of flesh of his charge's body. Dean screams over and over, his voice eventually giving out, the only sounds he can make are hoarse, animalistic wails. The demon knows how to hold the razor, how much pressure to use, to make it hurt so badly that Dean is reduced to begging, but somehow he remains alive, miraculously, he stays alive, even though he looks grotesque, the only scraps of skin left slowly healing on his face. When he looks somewhat human again, pink, new flesh wrapping around the inner musculature of his cheeks and chin, he begs. His throat is still raw and painful, blood clotting the insides of his mouth. "Please." He cries. Alistair gives him an incredulous look._

_He bristles in fear when Alistair steps back, admiring his handiwork. He presses his blade to the seam of Dean's lips, cutting them in a line up, splitting the top one completely. He leans forward and kisses Dean's brow. "You're my favorite, Dean." He waves a hand vaguely around, calling the watchers closer. "Come." he says, "Eat."_

Dean wakes up violently, eyes wide and breathing erratic. He looks around the empty room, Sam's gone. When He looks back around there's a dark figure standing by the bed.

"Hello, Dean." Dean sighs and lifts himself out of the bed, smoothing his hands down his rumpled jeans. He steps away from the angel and glares. Castiel's face is shadowed out but Dean can still feel the weight of his gaze. He wants to hurt him. He wants to make him understand that he isn't the right guy for this, for any of this. He wants to tell him, it's not me. You got the wrong guy. '

And yet, he wants to beg. _'Tell me it's true. Make me believe in you.' _Most of all, he wants this life. He wants Bobby and Sammy and Castiel. He wants the memory of John and Mary. He wants to think that maybe someone gives a fuck about him, that he is worth something. That he doesn't belong to Alistair.

He doesn't say any of those things. "What do you want?" He asks instead, his voice just a touch angrier than he had tried for.

"Big things afoot." Castiel answers, taking a step closer to Dean, and _hold on there buddy_, did no on ever teach him about personal space? If you get that close to someone they might just misinterpret your intentions. Dean tells him so, not daring to take a step back.

"Your mother never tell you not to kiss on the first date?" Dean asks, a slight tilt to the corners of his lips. He's taunting an angel. Yeah, he's a badass.

Castiel is not even affronted, "That was not my intention." He doesn't step away either and yeah, now it's getting a little uncomfortable.

"You're needed." and he doesn't mean it like that, he means that the angels want to put him on some kind of God-mission, but it sounds a lot like, _'I need you.'_ and that's good enough for Dean to feel something. It always astounds him when it happens. When something inside him signals his brain, and suddenly he _feels_.

A demon with a heart. Funny.

"Oh? What do you _want _with _me_, Castiel?" The way his voice changes, going ragged and suggestive, is completely disregarded and misunderstood by the angel.

"I've come to explain to you what is expected of you." Dean rolls his eyes and finally, gracelessly, steps away, walking over to the mini-fridge and snagging a beer.

"Again? Didn't we already do that?" Dean asks in a joking manner. The angel shifts on his feet and crosses his arms.

"You told me that it was not a good time. I told you that I would see you again soon."

"What's in it for me, Cas?" Dean flops back against the bed and takes a sip from the bottle in his fingers. The angel looks confused and tilts his head.

"The continuatuon of the human species?"

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A/N: Sorry for the crazy short chapter but I got really busy and didn't want to make you guys wait any longer.


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